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“Billionaire humor—another requirement for graduation. Excuse me,” I say, intending to slip away.
But Sadie links her arm through mine as I step out of Jasmine’s clutches. “Not so fast, Mr. King,” Sadie murmurs. “You’re not leaving me alone to deal with the wolves.”
I chuckle as we move toward the table. “Wolves, huh?”
“What would you call them? Oh, right—acquaintances.”
“Wolves might be better. Is Riley at least being nice? You two seemed to hit it off. She’s not so … you know.”
“Oh, she’s great. I’m not including Riley when I talk about the wolves. Just the other two.”
Tao will be serving dinner any minute now, and I want to choose our seats. I pull out a chair for Sadie, then push it in asshe sits, letting my fingertips trail over her shoulder. I don’t miss the little shiver Sadie gives at my touch, or the way the pink in her cheeks darkens to more of a red.
I seat myself to Sadie’s right, at the head of the table. Not because I think I’m so important, but because it will be easier at the head to keep my distance in case Jasmine or Ana try to move close again.
Sadie watches me as I sit down, her gaze tracking my every move. Is she thinking of my promise to kiss her later? I know I am.
Patience, I tell myself.
I don’t want to be demeaning with animal comparisons, but my strategy in this situation feels a little like fishing. I’m dangling the bait in front of Sadie, every so often moving the line to catch and keep her attention. But it isn’t about teasing her or tricking her into taking the bait. I’m waiting for her to figure out she wants to be caught in the first place.
Because I’m not interested in throwing her back.
Philip, Jasmine’s brother, takes the seat on my other side, earning a scowl from Jasmine and a pout from Ana. But once everyone is seated, the distance and number of people at the table make it easy to ignore them both.
Tao and Leandra serve the meal—a beautifully cooked red snapper with saffron rice, a vegetable souffle, and a crab bisque. As we all start to eat, I nudge Sadie’s foot, surprised when she slips off her shoe and rests her bare foot on top of mine. I expected her to kick me away. Her touch under the table is enough to distract me, and I end up dropping my spoon in the soup and splattering my shirt.
Sadie’s smirk tells me she knows exactly what distracted me, and she’s more than a little pleased.
It feels like we’ve settled back into what we know—a deliciously addicting game of give-and-take, push-and-pull. I can only hope that this kind of game will end with two winners.
Things could be so good between us.
Does Sadie see this? Does she know that I’m not just playing around?
Okay, I’m playing alittle. But only because this is a long game, and I think with Sadie, giving her time is the best thing. Well—giving her time while also making her wait. And pushing her buttons.
I only hope she understands that in the grand scheme of things, I’m taking this—takingher—very, very seriously.
Sadie’s toe runs across my ankle, and my fork clatters against my plate.
Okay.I might have to shorten the timeline on the long game I’m playing. This woman is going to be the end of me. Maybe we just need to have a conversation before we kiss again, before we kiss forreal. I could just lay it on the line and tell her how I really feel, what I really want. At least then, she’ll know where I stand.
On the flip side, knowing where I stand might scare her all the way back to Atlanta. But that’s a risk I’m going to have to take.
Still, the thought of that kind of a conversation—it would be the first of its kind for me which makes it more than a little terrifying.
But what’s the saying—do it scared? And then there’s the other one about nothing worth doing ever being easy. Put them both together, and … I guess I should do this while scared and because it’s not easy? Or something like that.
In keeping with my plan to tantalize Sadie into a state of complete abandon, or maybe because I just can’t help myself, I don’t stop touching her through dinner. I lean close enough todrape my arm over her shoulders, then let my fingertips drag over her skin as I pull back. I brush my knuckles over the back of her hand when she reaches for her spoon. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. I lean close enough that my lips graze her cheek when I murmur something to her.
I can see the resulting flush in her cheeks, the dilated pupils, the quick intakes of breath. And it’s doing just as much for me, making the ache for her as real and palpable as a bruise, if a little more pleasant.
As Danny clears our plates and serves up coffee before dessert, Ana taps her glass with her knife. So hard I’m relieved the glass doesn’t break.
“I’d like to offer up a toast to Benjy for saving us,” she says.
“Here, here,” Philip says, not waiting for her to finish before taking a swig of his vodka tonic.
